Reckoner
by Janieshi
Summary: '"I don't want to argue with you either, John. To be honest, I'm not even sure what I believe, anymore," she admitted quietly.' Donovan-centric character introspection, with a heavy dose of John being...well, John. Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall, rated T for some mild language and mentions of suicide.
1. Chapter 1

**Reckoner**

* * *

Sergeant Sally Donovan stood for a long moment on the unfamiliar doorstep, fists clenched at her sides.

It was now or never.

The last time she'd actually seen him face to face had been a complete disaster. Even now, she wasn't sure how they'd managed to convince him to come in to the NSY, after—well, after _everything_. But when she'd walked in and seen him sitting there in Lestrade's office, Donovan's first thought had been that the good doctor looked _**broken**_. Exactly as one might expect of a man whose best friend had committed suicide right before his eyes.

He'd lifted his head at her approach. And the accusation in his reddened eyes had overwhelmed her.

Defensive, Donovan had coped as she usually did: by unleashing her sharp tongue. In an attempt to justify herself, to expiate the guilt roiling in her belly, she'd said some dreadfully unpleasant and unfair things to him. All of which had been decidedly 'Not Good,' to borrow one of Freak's phrases. _("He confessed to it all, didn't he, right before he jumped? So why are you still trying to defend him? Jesus, John, can't you see he's just done us all a favor by offing himself?")_

He'd snapped. The calm, kind, easy-going doctor had lashed out at her with an intensity she'd never _dreamed_ that he possessed. (_He is my __**friend**__, you cold-hearted, sanctimonious bitch. Can't you lay off him even for one sodding minute? He's DEAD! Isn't that enough for you?) _

They would've had themselves a full blown screaming row right there in the middle of Lestrade's office, if Lestrade himself hadn't leaped between the two of them and ordered her to leave. Even now she was certain that John would've struck her, regardless of her gender or occupation, if Lestrade hadn't intervened at that exact moment. But as she'd stormed away, doing her best to ignore the stares and whispers, Donovan had glanced back just in time to see her superior officer gently place his hands on John's shaking shoulders.

And she'd hated herself.

Two sleepless nights later, Donovan had made herself a promise: she would apologize to Dr. Watson. She knew full well that she'd crossed the line. She'd been cruel and vicious to a decent man who'd never done anything but be pleasant and polite to her. Even if he _hadn't_ been such a decent person, John Watson still didn't deserve the nasty things she'd said. So she'd resolved to face him, one on one, to tell him so.

But the days had turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and still she hadn't gone to see him. Doubts had surfaced about this Richard Brook person, who seemed to be no more than a shadow and a ghost. But they couldn't prove the existence of a James Moriarty either, and so nothing had really been resolved.

The media went back and forth, calling Sherlock Holmes a criminal mastermind one day and a poor, misunderstood genius the next. Whenever his name was mentioned, accusations flew and tempers flared.

Through it all, John held his head high and refused to speak to anyone about him, looking right through the clamoring reporters as though they weren't even there, rejecting tantalizing offers for exclusive interviews left, right and center. In the photos she saw in the papers, he always looked grim, but never ashamed of himself or his friend. And the hot little ball of guilt in Donovan's belly grew.

Finally, more than half a year after 'the incident,' Sergeant Donovan found herself standing at his door. She'd been chasing a lead on an open case and wound up in a part of town she rarely visited. And she'd realized how close she was to the address Lestrade had recently mentioned in passing. It was impulsive, yes, and it was getting a bit late, but she'd put this off long enough now.

It was time.

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**A.N. Just a little unfinished something I 've been playing with lately. This is my first foray into the BBC Sherlock-verse, and sadly, I'm not British in the least...so please forgive me for any blatant Americanisms. Or feel free to point them out! As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated :)**

**xoxo Janie**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

The sharp rap of her knuckles on the door echoed much too loudly in the quiet little street. Despite the unpleasant flutter in her stomach, Sergeant Donovan held her ground. She had her fair share of character flaws, just like everyone else, she supposed. But cowardice had never been one of them. At the sound of a deadbolt sliding back, she stood up just a little bit straighter and hoped that her nerves wouldn't show.

When his eyes met hers, she saw the flicker of surprise. She was clearly the last person he'd expected to find shivering on his doorstep in the freezing sleet of February. His steely blue gaze flicked over her bare head, scarfless neck, gloveless hands, and inadequately lined coat. She knew that the doctor in him wanted to scold her for being careless of her health in this weather. But he merely pursed his lips, focused his eyes back on her face, and waited.

In that moment Donovan realized that she'd been picturing John Watson as the broken shell of a man she'd snarled at on that memorable day in Lestrade's office. But the man standing before her was anything but broken. He looked tired and a bit haggard, yes, and his eyes were still inexpressibly sad. But upon opening his door, he'd automatically straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, all pride and defiance and deep inner strength, with just a touch of cool hostility. Not that she blamed him. After all, if he was right, then she'd been horribly, terribly wrong, and an innocent man had been driven to take his own life.

He should be irritated to see her, if not outright furious. He should be snapping and demanding. _Why are you here? Get the hell away from me. What do you want? How dare you show your face __**here**__? _He should be saying SOMETHING.

But John simply stood there, resolved, silent, patient. Dignity personified. As though he was waiting for her to start...because he _expected_ some form of verbal abuse from her, she realized. And something inside her broke just a little. She wasn't a bad person, really she wasn't, but how could John know that when she'd only ever been a sneering cow to him? She'd never given him a reason to expect anything but sarcasm and cruelty from her.

"John," she began, and then stopped. Suddenly she had no idea what to say.

"Sergeant Donovan," he replied coldly, his face a mask of polite indifference. She swallowed, hard, and forced her lips to form the words.

"I…I'm sorry to just show up like this," Sally stammered, affected by John's icy demeanor in a way she had not anticipated. "I came because I wanted to tell you…I wanted to say-"

"I think you've already said enough, don't you, Sergeant?"

"Look, I wasn't the only one who thought he was involved, was I?" she snapped, heckles rising in spite of herself. "The way he acted, the things he said during that whole case…he looked suspicious! Even _you_ have to admit that he seemed guilty, John!" His eyes narrowed, dangerously.

"So. You want to try and justify your actions now, do you?" His voice was deceptively calm, and set off warning bells in her head.

"Yes. No! No, damn it all! I came here to _apologize_, John." She had the sudden absurd urge to stomp her foot like a child throwing a temper tantrum. John just shifted his weight and raised an eyebrow.

"Doing a hell of a job, Sergeant Donovan," he said, and that soft, dangerous voice turned her knees to jelly. Donovan suddenly remembered that John had been a soldier; that he had killed men in the line of duty and was perfectly capable of doing it again. And that he didn't particularly like her to begin with. She struggled to rein in her temper and tried again.

"Please. I want to explain, to make you understand..."

"No," he interrupted with a soft huff of breath. "No, you want to make yourself feel better."

"Tha-that's not true," Sally faltered. Or was it? Was John right? Was she really seeking some sort of absolution from the best friend of a man whose death she had probably helped cause?

And just like that, all of her noble intentions seemed little better than flimsy, self-serving excuses. If she was really only here to apologize, then why did it matter to her whether John understood her intentions or not? Whether he bloody _liked_ her or not? When had she become so bloody selfish? To her absolute horror, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

John had been standing in his doorway with one hand resting on the door, as though ready to slam it in her face if need be. As Sally's tears started to blur her vision, John sighed softly. She felt rather than saw the tension leave his frame.

"It's too bleeding cold out to have this discussion in my doorway," he said in a resigned tone. "Come in, then." Surprised, she looked up at him. Had she heard that correctly? But he had already stepped aside to let her through, and he wasn't meeting her eyes.

Well. She'd no idea that a woman in distress was his weak point. Interesting, but perhaps not altogether very surprising.

"The kettle's just on," he was saying. "May as well have a cuppa while we talk."

Unable to refuse the unexpected invitation, Sally cautiously stepped into the flat after him.

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**A.N. Sorry for another short chapter, but it seemed a natural stopping place. Thanks for the favorites, follows, and reviews! Feedback is always deeply appreciated.**

**xoxo Janieshi**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Sally allowed John to take her coat (score one for good, old-fashioned chivalry), and obeyed when he indicated with a gesture that she should take the armchair closest to the fireplace. He knelt for a moment to stir up the embers and add a bit more wood, and Sally took the opportunity to study the unfamiliar flat with keen interest.

John had once mentioned that the reason he'd ended up living with Freak in the first place was because he couldn't afford a decent place in London on his meager army pension. So when Lestrade had told her that John was no longer living on Baker Street, Sally had rather expected to find him in a tiny, ill-situated bedsit in a dodgy part of town.

But this place was nice—very nice, actually. Hardwood floors, plush leather chairs and sofa, bright and cheerful prints on the walls, books and movies in the built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. All very neat, clean, and cozy. But there was something _off_ about the flat…the décor or the ambiance or _something_…it just didn't feel like John, somehow.

Straightening up just as the kettle began to whistle, John glanced over and caught Sally's furtive appraisal of the room. His lips quirked upwards in amusement.

"Place belongs to a friend who's been deployed. I'm looking after it for her for a little while," he explained, moving into the kitchen to silence the shrill scream of the boiling kettle. He busied himself with the tea things for a few moments, and didn't speak again until he'd placed a steaming mug between her frozen hands. "Chamomile." Her favorite, as it happened. "With just a touch of honey. It'll be good for your throat on a night like this."

"Thank you." She breathed in the fragrant steam appreciatively.

Coincidence? Or had he known somehow? Had Freak 'deduced' that it was her favorite, at some point, and told his flat mate? But then why would he have noted such a detail, and about someone he didn't even like? She couldn't quite wrap her head around it. So she shifted it aside to join the jumbled confusion that was everything she'd ever known or suspected about Sherlock Holmes. It was starting to get rather crowded in that section of her brain.

While Sally grappled with the implications of tea selection, John settled into another squashy armchair and blew lightly on the surface of his own tea. His was dark, she noticed, some sort of black or oolong blend, earthy and spicy and faintly citrusy. So he _had_ chosen chamomile for her specifically. Before she'd decided whether or not that was significant, John set his mug aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Why did you come?" he asked. Although his voice was still soft, it was gentle now, kind—what she privately thought of as his doctor voice.

Sally opened her mouth, and then shut it again. She was still a little disconcerted by John's effortless shift from the subtly dangerous, cold-hearted soldier to the warm and solicitous neighbor offering up tea and biscuits. Shouldn't he be screaming at her, calling her horrible things, making a scene? Pouring down righteous fury on her deserving head? Telling her that her words and actions had pushed an overwrought, fragile psyche past its limits; literally driven a desperate man over the edge? It's what she'd have done had their situations been reversed.

But she'd forgotten who John had been living with for nearly two years. He shook his head slightly as he read the emotions flickering across her face.

"I'm not going to scream at you, Sally," he said, simply. "Did you really think I would?"

"After everything I've said to you, I rather expected it," she confessed.

"Yet you came here anyway," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "And they say I'm the one who needs a therapist."

"You have every right to. Yell at me, I mean," she said. John looked away from her for a moment, clearly struggling to master some strong emotion. He let out a slow, heavy sigh before he met her eyes again.

"I _was_ angry with you, at first. I _wanted_ to blame you for his death," he admitted softly. "I wanted to believe that you, by voicing your suspicion, set in motion a chain of events that overwhelmed him. Left him with no choice, in his mind, but to take his own life. Except...that's not quite true, is it?"

"Isn't it?" she whispered.

"What happened…what Sherlock chose to do…it wasn't _your_ fault. How can I hold _you_ responsible for his actions? You said some things that stung, yes, but ultimately you were just doing your job. At most, you've stained his reputation. But you didn't push him off the building."

"Not literally, maybe. But I did say some really horrible things to him. And to you, right after he…" she paused, cleared her throat. "It was wrong. I was wrong." John frowned a little, and started to open his mouth, but Sally shook her head impatiently. "No, let me get this out. Please."

"Go on, then." He gave a little nod of encouragement, and Sally took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry for all the nasty things I said to you, John. Having at you like that was unprofessional and uncalled for. I didn't even really mean the things I said, but—you looked so wretched, and I dunno why, but seeing you looking like that made me so _angry_, and so…" she cut herself off. No, no excuses, she reminded herself. She was silent for a moment, trying to beat back the self-loathing that threatened to overwhelm her.

"And so?" John prompted gently. Carefully, Sally set her tea down and leaned forward, unconsciously mirroring John's position across from her.

"I came out here because I wanted to apologize to you in person. Not _just_ for the things I said that day, but for _all_ of it. I don't expect you to forgive me or anything like that. I just wanted to tell you that I really am sorry." There. She'd owed him that much at least.

John studied her face in silence, noting the genuine pain and regret in her eyes. After a moment, he sat back a bit and cleared his throat.

"Apology accepted," he said softly. "I said some pretty nasty things myself, if I recall correctly. So I'm sorry, too." And he offered her a small, crooked smile, while his blue eyes twinkled. Sally's breath hitched in her chest. God, the man was _charming_ when he wanted to be.

"Thank you," she said, not knowing what else to say. "Although...I don't think you really have anything to apologize for."

"No, I do. I shouldn't have retaliated when you had that outburst, back at the Yard. I ought to have guessed that seeing me would set you off like that." Sally paused with her tea mug halfway to her lips.

"How do you mean?" She tilted her head slightly to one side, looking rather like a curious bird.

"I must have looked quite pathetic, to rouse up all those protective instincts in you," he said. "It was actually very sweet of you, Sally, to get so riled up on my behalf. You wouldn't have done if you didn't care." He chuckled at the expression on her face. "You said that seeing me look so pitiful made you angry, yes?"

"Well…yes," she admitted slowly.

"Right. You got so angry because you thought Sherlock didn't deserve that—didn't deserve inspiring that kind of sadness in another person. He'd betrayed and lied to everyone, and then he'd gone and killed himself rather than face justice like a man. He'd taken the coward's way out and left the rest of us to clean up the mess, literally and figuratively. How could anyone still harbor loyalty and affection for a person who had done all that? He wasn't worthy of my friendship, and therefore his death wasn't worth my sadness, in your estimation. And yet there I sat, grieving away. Mourning the loss of my best friend as though he hadn't tricked me right along with everyone else. That made you angry, on top of all your other conflicting feelings about what had just happened, and of course I was a rather convenient target to vent your frustrations upon." Sally just gaped at him.

"John, that's…how did you even know-?" He smiled again, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Oh, well now. Just because Sherlock was the smartest person in whatever room he walked into doesn't make the rest of us idiots," John huffed, feigning exasperation. "I _am_ a doctor, you know. Read medicine at King's College; completed all the required coursework and everything. Including fundamental psychology." Serious tone notwithstanding, John was enjoying this. It was those smiling eyes of his that gave him away.

"Psychology," Sally repeated, a bit stupidly.

"Yes. I may not be as observant as Sherlock, but it doesn't mean I don't notice _anything_. I'm rather good at reading people, actually." He looked her over. "For example, I know that _you_ are a passionate woman who feels things very deeply; that you try your damnedest to conceal your feelings because you are afraid of appearing weak. Especially important to you, that bit, given that law enforcement is still a predominantly male field, and sometimes the women in your profession have a difficult time being taken as seriously as the men. I also know that you have a rather considerable temper, which you struggle to keep under control as it's gotten you into a spot of trouble in the past. Most likely with a chauvinistic coworker, or possibly a superior officer, who looked down on you or treated you as some kind of glorified office assistant rather than as an equal with considerable talent of your own. Or, worse, made an extremely inappropriate pass at you."

Sally just blinked at him in shock.

"Did someone tell you about-?"

"No, not a bit of it. I can observe and draw conclusions too, you see. Normally I don't do it aloud, of course, as that's rather rude. But it doesn't mean I haven't noticed." He calmly sipped his tea while Sally gaped like a fish.

"John," she murmured finally. "Maybe you should look into being a therapist yourself. I didn't even know I felt all that about Fre—about…_him_." She lowered her eyes, suddenly ashamed. "But you're right. I _didn't_ think he deserved a friend like you. God," she breathed. "You're absolutely right."

For several moments, the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

"I won't argue with you about Sherlock, Sally," John finally said, his voice heavy with suppressed emotion. "I know you still believe that rooftop confession was genuine; that he was a fraud. But he was my best friend. I _knew_ him…and I will never believe that our friendship was founded on lies. Sherlock was set up. We were _all_ set up. And now he's gone." His voice broke, and he had to take a deep breath before he could continue. "That's _all_ I'll say about it."

"I don't want to argue with you either, John. To be honest, I'm not even sure what I believe, anymore," she admitted quietly, speaking to the mug of tepid tea cradled in her hands.

John could have said several things: _A little late for that now, isn't it?_ Or: _Fat lot of good your existential crisis does us now, since he's dead_. Or: _So you planted the seed of doubt that stripped away all of his credibility, and lost him all of his professional and personal support, and ruined his reputation, and in short backed him up against the wall until he felt the only way out was to take a header off a nice tall building? And __**now**__ you aren't even bloody sure what you __**believe**__?_

But John had never acted according to her expectations. Without missing a beat, he offered her two simple words.

"I am."

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**A.N. Thanks again for all the reviews, story/author favorites and follows! I am much obliged. **

**xoxo Janie**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

_"To be honest, I'm not even sure __**what**__ I believe, anymore."_

_"I am."_

* * *

Sally raised her head slowly, and found herself looking into the compassionate blue eyes of a man who had never doubted his friend. Of a man who'd silently endured the taunts, insinuations, and outright disdain of a hostile populace for months without breaking. Of a man whose steadfast loyalty would not, could not, be shaken.

"John," she murmured, overwhelmed by the rush of conflicting emotions that overtook her.

"I believe in Sherlock," John said softly. "Look, I know it's only my word against 'Richard Brook's' right now. But I mean to make others believe, too, eventually. I may have to be patient, but I **will** find a way to clear his name, Sally. Somehow."

Suddenly, she had no doubt that he would.

"John, if you're right…if you've been right all along, then…"she drew a shaky breath. "Then it really is my fault. I led the first charge; I set off a chain reaction, just like you said. If not for me-"

"No," he interrupted with a firm shake of his head. "Don't start that again. You are not to blame for his death, Sally. You know that," he repeated.

Listening to John's reassurances with a kind of desperate hope, Sally realized that John had been right, earlier. She really had come here seeking absolution. Forgiveness. She _needed_ John to tell her that Freak's suicide wasn't her fault.

"But, if not for me, then maybe he wouldn't have-" she stopped short, unable to finish the thought aloud.

"What?" John prompted. "Do you think if you hadn't spoken up, then maybe Sherlock wouldn't have ended up on that roof?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"No. You know it's not that simple. It wasn't the public's opinion that he cared about. And with Moriarty's involvement, those robberies and that whole kidnapping set-up…no," he said, shaking his head. "There was more to it than that."

"What are you saying, John?"

"I don't pretend to understand all of what was going through Sherlock's head that last day. But it wasn't just that you didn't trust him, or that Lestrade had questions. There was something else, something _more_, that made him take that last step…something _I_ _missed_..." he mumbled that last part half to himself and frowned.

"But…" Sally started to argue.

"No. Listen," John continued firmly, "If _you_ hadn't been the first person to express your doubts about him, then it would've been someone else. It was inevitable."

"Do you honestly believe that?" A pleading note had crept into her voice.

"I do, yes. Sherlock once told Lestrade that you can't kill an idea, not once it's found a home in your mind. Moriarty took care to plant the seeds, and Sherlock's own bloody attitude helped them grow. The fact that you were one of the first people to suspect him _still_ doesn't make you responsible for what he chose to do afterwards."

"Even if my suspecting him, and convincing others to suspect him, made him think he didn't have a choice? Made him wretched enough to consider suicide?"

"He still had a choice. We _always_ have a choice. It...it kills me that he made the choice he _did_," John's voice suddenly sounded a bit thick, and Sally noticed that his fists were tightly clenched. "But, still-regardless of how I feel about the choice he ultimately made, the only one accountable for Sherlock's actions is _Sherlock_."

"I really thought I was doing the right thing, at the time," she said, earnestly. "By speaking up. I never, ever thought that it would end like that. For God's sake, I never wished him _dead_."

"I know you didn't," he acknowledged. "But you're only human. You let your emotions color your judgment sometimes, just like everyone else. A part of you wanted payback for all the petty insults and criticisms you'd endured over the years."

"Maybe that's true. But I honestly thought my motives were pure, John."

"I know it," he answered gently. "You know, you're being awfully hard on yourself, Sally."

"It's funny," she said with a soft humorless laugh. "Don't we have this backwards? Shouldn't you be accusing while I defend?" John smiled.

"I've been over and over it in my head, so many times," he replied. "But I was never able to convince myself that it was _your_ fault. It was no more yours than mine, or Lestrade's, or anyone else's. There was more to his choice than a few harsh words or doubtful looks. He dealt with far worse all through school." He didn't say so again, but Sally heard John's unspoken words: _There is something I missed. There is more to Sherlock's suicide than meets the eye. _

"Still. I shouldn't have gone at him so…eagerly," she said, shame and self-loathing stopping up her throat.

"Well, no. But he was such a self-righteous little git sometimes, it's hard to blame you for that," John replied, with another sad little lopsided smile. "Come on, Sally. I lived with him. I know exactly what an arrogant, self-absorbed, childish prick he could be when the mood struck. And he certainly sniped at you every chance he got. He knew exactly what buttons to push to antagonize you, and he did so quite enthusiastically."

"It wasn't always like that, you know," Sally admitted, in a small voice. "We got along just fine, in the beginning. And then, one day—I was just another person to ridicule while he sailed around the crime scene spouting off deductions and acting like he owned the place. I don't even know what I did that changed things," Sally confessed, her words surprising even herself. Had that been bothering her all this time?

John just looked thoughtful.

"I think I do."

"What, honestly?" she said, eyes widening in surprise.

"Mmhm. Hang on a tic," he said, standing. "I think it's time we switched to something stronger than tea."

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**A.N. Thank you so much for the reviews and alerts and follows! A special thank you to my Guest reviewers, whom I am unable to thank individually. Your encouragement is deeply appreciated!**

**xoxo Janie**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

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He returned a moment later with a bottle of very expensive brandy and two tumblers, and poured a generous amount into each before handing one off to Sally.

"I tried to be polite to him, the first few times Lestrade called him in," Sally explained, accepting the glass gratefully. "They had some sort of history; I gathered that much right off. Lestrade didn't even bat an eyelash at the sarcasm and the outright _rudeness_."

"Used to it by then, I'd imagine."

"Right. And at first the comments were easy to ignore. You know, the usual 'You're so blind; how did you miss something so obvious' and so on."

"Of course," John smiled.

"It wasn't until much later that he started getting personal. Mentioning my, er…love life and such," Sally continued, painfully aware of the blush that crept over her face. As though John hadn't heard Sherlock's snarky deductions about her and Anderson the first night they'd met.

"Those…personal observations," John began, hesitantly. "He didn't start making them until _after_ you took up with Anderson, am I right?" His ears, she noticed, had gone pink, and his eyes were fixed just a little too securely on his glass.

For some reason, the realization that this topic embarrassed John as well suddenly made Sally feel a lot less awkward. She thought about his question for a moment.

"I think so…yeah, sounds about right. What made you think of that?"

"He was projecting," John said softly.

"Sorry, what?"

"Sherlock's parents divorced when he was a kid. Really nasty one, from what I understand. He always blamed himself."

"But why?"

"Because he was a clever little bugger, even then. Noticed things kids his age shouldn't notice. He 'deduced' that his father was having an affair, and brought it to his mother's attention. Obviously, she was less than pleased, and there was a huge row….Sherlock was about seven at the time."

"Poor little blighter," Sally murmured. Maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but she felt a warm rush of pity for seven-year-old Sherlock. Imagined what it must have been like for a bright, sensitive kid like that, watching his family fall apart right before his eyes and thinking it's _his_ fault. What kind of horrible parents allow their child to think that? It's not like HE was the one being unfaithful.

"Sooo, as a result, Sherlock was always severe on the topic of, er…infidelity, and that sort of thing," John said, refilling Sally's glass without looking at her. "Rather struck a nerve. Not that he ever admitted it, of course."

"Oh. OH," Sally said, blushing in earnest this time. Of course he'd _noticed_ when she'd started up an affair with a married man. He'd been disgusted by her role as the other woman, and Anderson's as the cheating spouse.

And of course, he'd known exactly what buttons to push to embarrass and enrage the pair of them. Just what comments to make, in front of which people, and at precisely the right volume. Maybe she deserved censure for knowingly playing the part of the home-wrecker, but Sherlock really had gone out of his way to insult her at every turn.

"I'm not saying it was right; the way he acted towards you," John said. "Just that there's an explanation for why he said and did what he said and did."

"I wonder why I never spotted it…"Sally mused. "I suppose I just assumed he amused himself by humiliating people. It's not like sociopaths are known for their sensitivity towards other people's feelings," she said with a trace of bitterness in her tone.

"He was a lot of things, Sally," John sighed. "But he was never a sociopath, not really."

"What makes you so sure?" she couldn't help asking.

"Well, how he treated you, for one. Taking a sudden, childish dislike to you because he didn't approve of your relationship to Anderson? That was an emotional response, wasn't it?"

"Hm," she replied, noncommittal. And the old uncertainty reared up out of that 'all-things-Sherlock' place in her head. "But he was always saying he didn't do sentiment," she argued.

"Work was everything to Sherlock. He lived to solve those puzzles. Everything else, including the social conventions of basic human interaction, was a distraction to be avoided if at all possible," John explained, and chuckled a little. "He was an arrogant arse, yeah, and not always so good with social cues, but it was only because they got in his way. Never because he didn't _know_ what was appropriate in any given situation, if he bothered to spare it a thought."

"Well, he did say he was a high-functioning sociopath," Sally argued, frowning a little. "Sociopaths know what social rules they need to follow…to fit in with their…with their peers…huh," she interrupted herself, amazed.

"See? If he was, as he claimed, a high-functioning sociopath, then why didn't he just pretend to care? Sociopaths are known for being able to go through the motions, to mimic the appropriate actions and reactions, even if they aren't capable of the genuine feelings behind them."

"Right. People usually find them charming. At least on the surface."

"And aren't the neighbors and co-workers of sociopathic serial killers always saying how they seemed so nice and personable?"

"Oh yes," Sally agreed. "So instead of sucking up to people to get what he wanted, like a good little sociopath would do, he'd sort of just 'forget' those little social niceties whenever they weren't _convenient_ for him to remember."

"Mm-hm. Because anything not related to solving the puzzle was irrelevant," John said, nodding. "He told me once that caring wouldn't solve crimes any faster or save lives that were still at risk, but that doesn't mean he _didn't_ care. He just couldn't dwell on it because those sorts of feelings distracted him from finding the killer or the robber or what have you. He denied it, always, but he honest to God did care about other people. He was really good at _hiding_ the 'sentiment,' but he still _felt_ it."

"How do you know? I mean, really?" Hearing the incredulity in her tone, Sally kicked herself again. Pushing it too far, she thought, and braced for the backlash. But John just smiled, staring off into the distance. Remembering something.

"How do I know that he genuinely cared about others?" he asked. "How do I know he wasn't really quite the sociopath he claimed to be?"

"Well…yeah." Sally was genuinely curious. John's eyes were still focused on some distant object.

"It was just…all the little things," he said presently, in a slightly wistful tone. "The way he interacted with Mrs. Hudson, for example, when he thought no one was watching. The expressions on his face when she'd mother him; whether it was scolding him for something or bringing 'round his favorite biscuits," John explained, affection coloring his words. "Or the times I'd wake up in the middle of the night, and he'd play all these beautiful, soothing songs on the violin to lull me back to sleep. Or how he'd steal my laptop and change my passwords to things like 'Sherlock is awesome,' and 'Too obvious, John,' and 'Holmes for President.'" John paused, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Sally wondered what his laptop's password was now; whether he'd left it on one of Sherlock's cheeky ones all this time.

"John," she said softly, desperately wanting to reach out, to offer some sort of comfort, but equally afraid to overstep her boundaries. John shook his head slightly, as though to clear it, and turned to meet her eyes again.

"I just _knew. _I saw his face the time I walked out wearing that damn Semtex vest. I heard the fear in his voice when he spoke; felt his hands trembling when it was over. No one is that good an actor; not all the time. He couldn't have maintained that sort of façade indefinitely. And don't forget that I saw him when he _was_ acting, several times. I knew the difference. I knew _him_."

"Why haven't you said anything like that to the press, John?" she asked softly. "I'm sure if you could just get a few of them to listen, to see what you saw…"

"Not a chance. I thought about it, at first. But I'm a simple man, and rubbish at public speaking. They would eat me alive. Twist my words around and make me out to be some pathetic sod who's so far gone he can't even see that he's a victim of the con, just like everyone else."

Though Sally pursed her lips and nodded thoughtfully, she wondered whether John had any idea of the impact he had on other people with his simple, straightforward honesty. If anyone could bring the public opinion round, John could. He just…had a way about him. Maybe it was why Freak—no, she scolded herself, she shouldn't keep calling him that, even in her own head. _Sherlock_. Maybe that was why _Sherlock_ had allowed John to get so close.

They sit in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping their brandies and enjoying the warmth of the fire.

"Can I ask you something?" John broke the silence first. Sally nodded. "You had an odd look on your face, just after I opened the door tonight. Were you really that wound up, about coming here?" She laughed ruefully.

"Well, yes and no..." she admitted. "I _was_ expecting you to yell and slam the door in my face. But mostly I was surprised by how different you looked from the last time I saw you. It's a bit stupid, really. But I didn't expect to see you looking so _well_. To be perfectly honest, I thought you'd be..." she cut herself off just a moment too late, realizing that she'd been about to say something rather offensive.

"So depressed I'm barely able to function?" John finished the sentence for her with a wry smile. "A lonely, pathetic shell of my former self? Drinking my way to an early grave? Pining away?"

"Well, not pining, exactly," she protested, trying not to fidget. "I didn't mean to imply—"

"It's all right," he interrupted, more kindly than perhaps she deserved. He sighed heavily. "It's just that…Sherlock's not the first friend I've lost, Sally. He's not even the first friend I've lost to suicide." His eyes were a million miles away and filled with a sadness so overwhelming it made her heart ache reflexively. "It's not easy, by any means. But what else can you do, besides move on with your life? Sherlock is one of the best friends I ever had. And I miss him constantly. I just...can't afford to dwell on it."

"Even I miss him, sometimes, and he drove me completely mad. I can't imagine how _you_ must feel—I know how close you two were," she said, abashed. She cannot seem to get this right. "I am sorry, John. That you had to lose him."

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"God, I'm really bad at this, aren't I?" she huffed, self-deprecatingly.

"Terrible," he agreed with another soft, sad smile. "Perhaps it's best if you stick with your day job, Sally, because you've no talent for psychotherapy. Another one?" He offered the bottle of brandy with a raised eyebrow.

"Please," she managed.

* * *

**A.N. I'm not 100% happy with this bit, but I _must_ stop agonizing over it, so I've gone ahead and posted it to stop the endless tweaking. There will be one more short little chapter after this...more an epilogue. As always, feedback is deeply appreciated! **

**xoxo Janie**


	6. Chapter 6

**Epilogue**

* * *

They'd talked late into the night, about Sherlock, Sally's current cases and John's co-workers at the A&E. He offered to set her up with a handsome surgeon he'd just met, with a significant look and a raised eyebrow. She'd had enough brandy by that point to admit that it would be nice to date someone who wouldn't kick her out of bed before the sheets were even cold because he was afraid _his_ _wife_ might turn up and catch them. And John had patted her arm awkwardly and told her she could do better than someone who treated her like that (not to mention how he treated his own wife, for pity's sake).

They parted with an odd sort of almost-regret, though neither needed a therapist to tell them that their mutual loneliness did not a proper friendship make. Sally hoped that, in time, they could build on this whatever-this-was that they'd managed to carve out tonight. That they could really become friends, in the same way that John and Lestrade had grown close over the months they'd worked together with Sherlock. God knew Sally had a hard enough time making friends, with her odd hours and the somewhat macabre humor a murder-cop developed as a defense mechanism to keep the darkness at bay. John understood that in a way few others would: he was a doctor _and_ a solider, and had seen plenty of darkness himself.

It was starting to get light by the time Sally wearily mounted the stairs of her own modest flat. Something was still bothering her, though…there was something about Sherlock's suicide that just didn't add up. It was in the way John's face had clouded as he whispered that he'd _missed_ _something_. It was in the way her gut twisted whenever someone mentioned that actor, Richard Brook, who no one could prove existed. It was in the ferocity with which John had defended Sherlock—in his official statements and interviews after the fact. He'd never even wavered. Something wasn't adding up, she realized. But she was too tired to deal with this anymore tonight.

Try as she might to put it out of her head, the topic simmered at the back of her mind throughout the following day as well. Finally, after hours of paperwork, routine legwork following up on the leads for three different cases, and several witness interviews, Sally sank into her desk chair just as the last of the cleaning crew left for the night. Absently, she stroked the fabric of the dark grey scarf John had insisted she borrow last night, even though the sleet had mostly let up by the time she left his flat. She probably shouldn't have worn it into work—what if something had happened to it? But she'd grabbed it without conscious thought, and it had served her well in the chill and damp of the day. And now, the feel of it on her neck made her think about John. And the look in his eyes as he spoke about believing in his friend and about being determined to prove his innocence to the world, someday.

Twining his scarf through her fingers, Sally made a decision.

* * *

"Sally," Lestrade acknowledged her as she carefully closed the door of his office behind her. "I thought you'd left hours ago. Something on your mind?" His face was grey and weary, and the fluorescent lighting did nothing to improve the dark circles under his eyes.

"I wanted to take a look at the Holmes file, sir. But when I went to dig it out, it was missing. And the file clerk told me that you had it in your office." She tried to keep the accusation out of her tone, and her expression neutral, but Lestrade knew her too well.

"Been talking to John, then?" he said lightly. Sally stared at him. He stared back.

"Ye-es," Sally answered slowly, uncertain. "I stopped by his place last night, after following up on a lead from the Clifford case."

"Mm. And did you two make it pax?" he asked, idly shuffling some papers on his desk and avoiding her eyes.

"We did, matter of fact," she replied, suspicion dawning. "Had a long chat over tea…" _But what does that have to do with the files you've been hiding in your office?_

"Good, good. Here," he said, passing her a thick manila envelope. "Here're copies of everything we've got so far. We meet the first Thursday of the month at the pub. The Red Lion, you know. Rather a crowded little place, but it helps to avoid unwanted attention. And their chips are decent."

"Greg, are you saying…"

"I'm saying that I'm glad you're joining us on this. A fresh pair of eyes will certainly do us some good. Good night, Sally."

"Yes, sir. Good night, sir."

Sally stood still outside of his door for a moment, not as stunned as she thought she probably should have been. What had she just agreed to? And why has it made her heart race?

One thing was certain—if it involved Sherlock Holmes, it wouldn't be the least bit dull.

* * *

**A.N. And there you have it, my very first completed Sherlock fic! Thank you again to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favorited this story. It truly means a lot to me! **

**And a special thank you to my anon reviewers, whom I am unable to thank individually. Most especially Sarah: Thank you very much for your input, my dear, and for your constancy :D**

**xoxo Janie**


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